


Finding Satisfaction (with each other)

by AngeNoir



Category: Hansel and Gretel: Witch Hunters (2013)
Genre: Competency, Cunnilingus, F/M, Family, Fighting Kink, Sibling Incest, Woman on Top
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-18
Updated: 2016-12-18
Packaged: 2018-09-09 11:23:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8888941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngeNoir/pseuds/AngeNoir
Summary: The hunt had been fairly easy - most of them, nowadays, were - and Hansel knew Gretel's blood was still up. When a local tough decided that he was going to press the issue even after Gretel shot him down, well, Hansel knew what was coming.He also knew what would happen once he got Gretel away from the fight and into their shared room.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alyse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alyse/gifts).



“I’m jus’ sayin’ – ‘m jus’ _sayin’_ —”

Hansel didn’t roll his eyes, only because this song and dance was so old by now that he didn’t need to know how this was going down. Also, because he recognized the voice. It was the big bruiser who had tried to hit on Gretel earlier in the evening, and Gretel had turned him down.

Why was it that the troublemakers were always the big guys? Hansel could handle himself, of course he could, and Gretel could take care of herself – that was _never_ in doubt – but one of these times it would just be nice if the guy that took exception to something about the two of them was _not_ a towering man who must have had giant blood in his ancestry.

“Stop spitting all over me. You’re drunk. Go sleep it off at whatever home you have in this… town.”

Well, shit. It sounded a lot like Gretel was on her way to becoming drunk, too. No way she would have been so clearly dismissive of the town when they were still physically _in_ it, not unless she was feeling tipsy and not as in control as she normally was.

It wasn’t as if she hadn’t had to clean up after his messes sometimes, too, though his were normally brawls that started after someone bet they could beat him at some test of skill that involved hand-eye coordination.

“You talkin’ to _me_?”

“ _Yes_ , you moron!”

Hansel knocked back the last bit of his ale as fast as he could and spun around in his seat to see that huge bruiser furrow his brow, try to understand what was happening, and then stagger forward into her space. She had been sitting close to the fire, huddled in both her own jacket and his – they had just finished killing the witch, but Gretel had been dragged through a river and the muck and silt. She had wanted to sit closer to the heat than Hansel, who had like three layers on even without his jacket, and knew he was going to overheat and die if he tried to sit next to the fire with her.

There was a good-sized crowd in the tavern. Hansel could get to her side, but the position she was in wasn’t exactly the easiest to get out of. It had no access to exits, and the only positive was that their backs would be against the wall. She needed to get closer to Hansel, but that meant she had to go around big and ugly first.

Well. That wouldn’t be hard for her.

He shifted in his seat, leaning one way and then another, trying to catch her eye to let her know she had to come out of that corner, closer to him.

He needn’t have bothered. Gretel was glowering up at the bull hanging over her and said, in an almost calm and polite tone of voice, “Get the fuck out of my space.”

“You need’ta learn some _res’peck_!” the village idiot bellowed.

Gretel dropped her head and shoulders when the thug threw a wild swing at her, and she slithered down in the seat and swiped with her legs, knocking the staggeringly tall man down with a huge thud that reverberated through the tavern.

With the guy no longer blocking their line of sight, Gretel caught sight of Hansel’s resigned and judgmental gaze. She quirked her lip up and he had to admit she was right – the witch had gone down fairly easy, even taking into account that Gretel had gotten snagged on Hansel’s… harpoon-thing. He didn’t know what he was calling it; it was an experimental way to down witches. He had designed an arrow that he could shoot forth with enough force to imbed it into the witch – or the witch’s broom – in order to prevent the witch from escaping. However, he was still working the kinks out of the delivery system; the rope had gotten wrapped around Gretel’s ankle.

But, beyond trying to run, the witch had afforded little to no real challenge.

So Gretel’s adrenaline was up, she was reaching that point of the night where she was pleasantly tipsy, and she was a little pissy, too. He was partly responsible for that, so the more of that she worked out of her system, the better.

At the thud, everyone in the tavern turned to look at her, but she only had eyes for Hansel, and Hansel felt his mouth quirking up, his blood beginning to pump.

She stood up, stripped off the two jackets she had on, and went to dump them on the floor. He let out a grunt – the number of jackets she went through and they had to replace was _ridiculous_ – and, rolling her eyes, she turned that motion into tossing them both to him.

As if it was the signal, as a one, the other denizens of the tavern surged up out of their chairs, heedless to the bartender who was snarling about not breaking any of his furniture. Hansel caught the coats and took a few moments to stuff them underneath his pack, and to tuck his pack by the stairs so that, when he inevitably got Gretel to stop whaling on the poor sucker she settled on beating the shit out of, he could shove her towards the stairs and settle whatever remaining grievances there were against his sister.

When he turned back, it was utter chaos: Gretel was in the middle of limbs and wooden chairs flying, her hair whipped out behind her, eyes alight with joy and bloodlust.

She never looked more magnificent.

He ended up staying more on the edges of the fight – taking the stumbling drunks on the outside of the main fight and making sure they were put down well enough that they didn’t find their way back into the middle. As he picked off more and more people, the fight got smaller, until it was just Gretel, panting, flushed, sweaty, and triumphant over the original instigator.

“—lady tells you she’s not interested, buddy, _she’s not motherfucking interested_. Cut your fucking losses and take the rejection with some fucking dignity,” Hansel heard her hissing at the downed half-giant as he came over to her side.

“You got that out of your system?” Hansel said as he took her elbow, and to anyone else, he might’ve sounded annoyed or frustrated, his grip on her stiff or tight, but she met his fond tone with her intense, affectionate gaze, flexed her arm under his gentle rubbing of his thumb over her muscle.

“You settle with the innkeeper, Hansel,” she murmured, letting him lead her over to the stairs, and she almost reached out, almost touched his cheek, but caught herself just in time. “You hurry up, because I’ve got something in my pack that I’m gonna start with. I’d rather finish with you.”

Licking his lips, Hansel turned to the irate head of the inn and turned on the charm. Heaven above knew he had no skill at all with women – literally, with every woman (that he didn’t have to pay for), he had never once managed to do anything but strike out – but he could project an affable and apologetic persona with ease.

It took a while to calm the innkeeper down – apparently, the big bruiser was a relative to the innkeeper’s wife, which meant that, in essence, Hansel had to part with some of their newly earned money to _help_ the innkeeper forget about the savage beating the moron had earned himself. Hansel also offered to help clear the broken furniture by moving it to the side so that the room was cleared.

 _Finally_ , he retreated upstairs, knowing that the innkeeper wouldn’t be stealing from them tonight, knowing that the innkeeper would prevent most from following them up into their room to settle the argument further. Knowing that Gretel had been up here for a while on her own, and for all he knew, she had gotten impatient with him and he wouldn’t have anything but his hand tonight.

He opened the door and was greeted with a _sight_.

Gretel, lying on the narrow bed, on top of the blankets, pants caught just underneath her knees, stockinged feet planted to spread her knees wide, tunic unlaced and pushed up to bare her belly, hair untied and spread over the rough pillow.

Those strong, scarred hands gripped the smoothed, sanded phallus he had created for her.

(As an aside, he _totally did not make his guns look like dicks_ [on purpose, at least], and after one too many jokes about how she was _really glad_ he kept his guns to himself and stuck to crossbows for her, he had made an _actual_ dick so she could see the difference.)

(She had been pleased, to say the least.)

For half a second, he stood frozen in the doorway, heat curling low in his abdomen, and then he came back to himself and closed the door behind him.

“Hansel,” Gretel breathed, and let out a soft moan. “Wh-what the _hell_ took you… so long?”

“Well,” Hansel rumbled, clearing his throat so that he wasn’t a hoarse, rasping adolescent when he spoke. “You really thoroughly trashed the downstairs.”

The reminder had her smirking, her thrusts a little more urgent, a finger sliding through her coarse hair, matted and slick with her excitement. “It was so… _goddamn fun_ though… wasn’t it?”

“I love seeing you like that,” he groaned, reaching down to adjust his erection, growing thick and heavy in his laces. “I love seeing you take apart those assholes. I _love_ seeing you use that sleeper hold.”

With each sentence, her breathing quickened, until she was panting and her hips were lifting up, knuckles white against the base of the phallus.

“Your tendency to lose _coats_ , however—” he began.

One of her eyes popped open, narrowed at him. “Are you… going to put your mouth… to better use… or am I finishing?” she grunted, glowering.

Eager, he shoved his tunic off his shoulders, dumped it on the floor and wormed underneath her pants, used his shoulders to spread her thighs even wider, hands cupping her ass, smoothing his thumbs over her silky skin. He didn’t pull the phallus away yet – no, he nudged his nose around the base of it, licked against her outer lips, forced his tongue in against the smooth wood (he kept it smooth, kept it free from splinters or anything at all that could harm his sister, because nothing was more precious than her), licked in against the muscular inner walls.

She was already on the edge, obviously, and her hand left her clit to clench in his short hair, her blunt nails scraping against his scalp. “Don’t keep me waiting, brother,” she gasped.

“Mouth, or dick?” he mumbled, pulling back, wrapping his hand over hers against the base of the phallus, doing two small, short thrusts and making a sharp whine jerk from her throat.

“Oh god, I’ll suck you off, or you can fuck me later, just, your mouth, god, Hansel, your mouth,” she said, voice rushed and desperate.

Hansel pulled the phallus out, dropping it to the side as he burrowed into her center, licking into her core. Both her hands rested against his face, then slid up to grip his hair.

They had a well-defined rhythm – she was the leader, he was the follower; she made the decisions and he backed her up; she looked at all the information he gathered and put it together so he could swing his weapon in the right direction. Here, in the bedroom, it was no different; she knew what she wanted, and she went for it, and he was more than content to follow her, let her ride his face, control his movements. It excited him, and he fought to keep his hips from thrusting against the bed. He was, in fact, half hanging off the end of the bed – it was very small, after all – and thrusting was both amazing and torturous.

“H- _Hansel_ , ah-h, _Hansel_!” she keened, thighs trembling and shaking as she climbed up to that crest.

He groped for the phallus, picked it up and _shoved_ it home, as deep as he could get it while still having a good grip on it, at the same time he lifted his mouth, moved over her clit, curled his tongue and _sucked_.

She let out a breathless gasp, her hands pulling at his hair, muscles locking around his ears, feels digging into his back, gushing against his mouth and the phallus, soaking the bed and her thighs. He let her ride it out, shivering underneath his mouth, and then when her muscles started to relax and slump he drew the phallus out, licked all around her sensitive hole, dragged out the pleasure for as long as he could.

Finally, when she began twitching from overstimulation, he pulled all the way back, crawled up the rest of her body and undid the bodice of her tunic – no corset today, because it had gotten torn up on the last witch, and they should probably stick around to do mending and repair work, and he wouldn’t mind spending some time in a smithy, but she _had_ insulted the town and it might not be good to stick around – and then she dragged his mouth to hers, short-circuited his thinking and he refocused on her limp, lax body, her legs and pants tangled underneath his ass, her eyes half-lidded and smug and soft. Her hands gripped his shoulders, then smoothed down the scars and roughened skin to trail over his upper ribs.

“You’re so patient,” she murmured, rubbing her soaked pussy over the crotch of his pants that was straining against his dick. “So good for me.”

He grunted, trying not to go cross-eyed at the stimulation, shifting his weight onto one hand so he could get his other hand down and undo the string that held the leather against his hips.

“Mmm, no, I’ll do that,” Gretel hummed, voice sleepy and slurred. “Get your hands up here.”

He glanced at where she was baring her breasts, nipples pebbled in the chill, soft and flattened a bit, shifting to the sides of her chest, and he lowered his mouth to one nipple, licking over it and suckling on the nipple. Her hands slid down his abdomen, cupped his dick and fondled his balls before they tugged his pants down enough to free his cock.

By the time her lazy hands had freed him, he was jerking his hips against hers, his mouth getting more desperate against her skin.

Her hands arranged him so that his dick was sliding against her cunt, feeling the steamy heat without having him dip inside her. It would rub along her clit, press against her navel. They had done this before, when they were both too desperate to trust themselves that Hansel would remember to pull out, and she clutched her knees against his hips – weakly, but the pressure was there, a searing brand against his already-fevered skin.

“Mark me up, Hansel,” she murmured, voice languid and husky. “Come on, little brother.”

Her hand was curved around his dick, tightening just right, and he was already hard as nails and primed. With a hoarse sob, he jerked, muscles locking as he spilled over her lower abdomen and belly, stripes of white and heat that his dick smeared over her skin.

Panting, he lowered his head and nestled it in the junction of her neck and shoulder. “Love you,” he mumbled.

“I love you too,” she murmured.

“We’re gonna haveta move on from this town t’morrow,” he added, because really, it was her fault.

She huffed. “We’ll deal. It’s fine. It was a fucking stupid town, anyway.”

With a grunt, he rolled to the side and fumbled around for a discarded article of clothing – he found his shirt, and that was pretty much it – and carefully began to clean her skin up, frowning a little at the discarded phallus. “Yeah, but if w’were here longer, we coulda done a lotta things. Guns. Ammo. Clothing. Laundry.”

“Stop whining,” she yawned, hands sliding down to wiggle her pants back up. Then she curled close to him, pressing her nose against his chest as he futilely tried to do up her tunic, when he could barely keep his eyes open. “There’s a rumor, out east. In Augsburg. We can travel that direction. Camp. Do laundry.” She yawned again, even larger than the last, and muttered, “Don’t wanna stay here anyway. That guy jus’ wouldn’ give up.”

Hansel wrapped his arms around her, held her closer as she dropped off. He wished she could be respected on her own, instead of every motherfucker and his brother seeing her as a threat to their masculinity and bravery.

Their recent encounters with witches had been getting easier and easier, at least. He thought they were finally hitting their stride. They could get this job done quick and easy and take a break.


End file.
